poeticdesires

Category: BDSM

  • Day Pass

    It felt like a rollercoaster going 70mph, and I am just now stepping off.

    The plan came together quickly and quite out of the blue. I was hanging out with EmberBliss, FireMonkey, and IPCookieMonster when the Open Space at TESFest was mentioned. It was occurring on Thursday July 3rd, the first day of the event, along with an Ignite series of kink presentations.

    I knew quite a few people who were going to TES, and it made me sad I would not see any of them. But then Cookie mentioned going up just for the happenings on Thursday. I realized this was a great idea. I had to work on Saturday, but I could manage Thursday only, with Friday to get back home.

    I pulled out my phone, got online, and registered immediately for the Thursday day pass.

    Then another thought popped into my mind. I wondered if Ignite had all its presenter slots full. I texted Gray, who was running both the Open Space and Ignite. Before I realized what I was getting myself into, I had volunteered to give a kink presentation with an accompanying slideshow in three days.

    I finished the slideshow and my flashcards the night before I left.

    The drive to New Jersey was not bad from my home, lasting just slightly over three hours. I made it to the event by 1pm, only an hour after registration was suppose to be open. However, due to unforeseen difficulties, both registration opening and the beginning of the Open Space were pushed back.

    Once everything did start, however, it felt like I barely had a moment to breathe.

    I ran two different sessions for Open Space, and participated, at least partially, in three others. I had amazing conversations, small moments, and saw some hot shit (pickup kidnapping scenes, who knew?). I felt fully engaged in collective knowledge sharing of passions just as it all had to end.

    During closing circle, I found myself de-roping from a self suspension. As I listened to everyone speak, I felt a sudden rush of sadness. We’d jumped into the deep end only to be pulled out much too fast for my liking, but such is life. Hopefully the Open Space will be back at TES next year.

    After the closing circle, there was diner food. After diner food, there was the deluge, remnants of hurricane Arthur that dumped a lot of water on us all as we made our way back to the hotel. After much scrambling, running around, a change of clothes, and prep, Ignite began.

    I was quite nervous before it was my turn to speak. I was the eighth person (out of ten) to present, I suspect because a certain someone is a sadist who likes to watch me squirm.

    Even so, I was not the only person with the jitters about public speaking. My friend FrozenMeursault was just as anxious as I was about the whole affair. His presentation on nerve injury and damage in bondage, however, was amazing. He timed his slides for reveals, blanks for when he just wanted to talk, and animation of the human body that had people in the audience actually awing. When he finished, to a rather large round of applause, I rushed to go give him a hug and tell him how great he did.

    Soon enough, it was my turn. I took the advice of my friends and stood in a power pose (think Wonder Woman) before I stepped up to the front. Funny enough, I think the mental trick worked. I spoke loudly and with lots of excitement.

    It helped that my topic was less technical and more emotional. I spoke about influences in my life that led me to cigar play and how, because I took a leap at one event, my life changed. When I finished, I felt great. FrozenMeursault came up and gave me a hug. The pressure was off. A rather large grin found its way onto my face.

    Post Ignite, it was time for play. Cookie had planned a Spin the Bottle party, which I did attend, but first it was time for stunt sex. As a follow-up to our sex at Fusion during my gang bang (which I will blog about more later), Cookie purchased two baseball bats to stick into my various holes. People watched us with interested, and bewildered, looks. The attention whore in me loved it.

    Before the Spin the Bottle party could start, we needed to find a place to land. We initially looked outside in the courtyard, but the gazebo, because of the rain, was less than ideal. The group decided to find a corner of the dungeon.

    “Hello Poetic.”

    On our way back inside, I stopped, turned, and saw Boymeat with his wife.

    “I thought you weren’t coming to this event.”

    “I’m only here for the day. I leave tomorrow.”

    “Oh darn, and I left my cattle prod in my room. Guess I’ll have to be extra mean to you at Summer Camp.”

    I blushed, began to leave, turned back, politely acknowledged Boymeat’s wife and my pleasure at meeting her, and then quickly scurried away.

    After Spin the Bottle, which was lighthearted and fun, I ventured back outside for cigars. Almost immediately, I shot straight towards a familiar and pleasing face.

    I tapped Doug on the shoulder. He turned, and we were in a hug within half a breath. For the next half hour, we chatted and hugged. And I nibbled on his neck. And he caressed his face into my shoulder. And we made a date for the next morning.

    I had found Doug at just the right time. After we set our morning meetup time, he faded quickly and headed home.

    I spent the next hour chatting with friends as we partook of tobacco, and then dragged myself to the nearby hotel room I shared with Cookie, FireMonkey, and Ember for the night.

    This morning I woke up late, got to Doug’s late, stayed too late because I didn’t want to say bye, and ended up heading home much later than I intended. Still, it was worth it.

    My event crash came hard and fast as I left my Fourth of July cookout with family. I spent two hours with them, a helpful distraction, but on my drive home all of my emotions came rushing back. The drop I felt as I sobbed into my arms, while still managing to drive, was immense.

    I slammed into and out of an event in 36 hours.

     

  • Voyeur

    I’ve always liked to watch.

    When I first stepped out into the kink scene, I loomed on the edge of a bar taking in the sights: the people, the outfits, the pairings, the play.  Especially the play.

    And now, some eight years later, I still take pleasure in watching.

    Once, when I arrived at an event late, about two o’clock in the morning, I didn’t want to just dump my things and go to bed.  I threw on a dark hoodie and crept towards the play space.

    Since it was late, most of the rooms were empty.  But one wasn’t.  An older woman and a younger man fucked hard on a bed.  From my vanatge point, I could only see his back and her chest and face.  I heard her moans.  Saw his tight ass as he fucked her.  I still bite my lip now as I think about it.

    Once, my freshman year in college, before I realized I was kinky, it was a Friday night.  I was not the social butterfly then, and found myself in my dorm room alone.  As I lazed on my bed watching tv, I began hearing moans through the wall.  There was fucking happening just on the other side of the concrete.

    Hearing a hot girl we had nicknamed Navy fuck her latest dick of the week was enough to get me incredibly horny.  I masturbated listening to her screams.

    As a kinkster, I have many more opportunities now to watch people play and fuck.  I’ve found I enjoy being a voyuer whether people know I’m watching or not.  But, I must admit, I do love it more when they don’t know.  It’s naughty; good girls don’t snoop.  But sometimes I love not being a good girl.

    Occasionally I enjoy mundane voyueristic activites.  People watching at a mall or in the park.  Seeing the handsome guy in the car to my left stretch his arms and resettle while we wait for the light to change.

    But nothing is so thrilling as lurking on the edge of a dungeon waiting for scenes to unfold.

    When watching, my thrill comes not only from seeing the hotness in front of me, but also imagining myself in one of the roles.  I picture myself as the person being beat or the person being fucked.  I take pleasure in the pain the person feels, reveling in their cries, their tears.  My cunt warms when they gasp or scream during sex.  Sounds, fuck I love sounds.

    More than once I’ve watched a person play, hopefully without their knowing, and then approached them later on for fun myself.  You can learn a lot about a person from how they play: the way they interact with their scene partner, what toys they use, or if they use any toys at all.

    One might argue that a night without play was not as good as it could have been.  I would say take a look around you.  See what people are up to.  I have had enjoyable experiences, titillating thrills, excruciating highs just from watching a scene unfold.  And, if nothing else, some twisted fucked up ideas have been inspired from others play.

    Happy watching.

     

  • Beating

    The Cabaret had just ended. There was a crush of people in the hall. A slow lumbering line out of the main dungeon.

    I was excited, anxious, at what awaited me.

    He stood at the first aid table. When I arrived, he looked me up and down.

    “Am I ripping that off of you?”
    “Uh, no.”

    Costume change. I took off my tight strapless black dress. Got naked in the hallway. Threw on a tank top and boxers.

    He had a rig held for us. We walked back through the throng. Back into the dungeon. Back towards my fate.

    His toy bag sat by a wooden double frame. Scenes were just starting up. We sat down our stuff. Laid down a sheet. Created our space.

    He started pulling out all the items in his toy bag. Mean things. Horrible things. Rope-y things. Many many things.

    He jumped up on the frame. Pulled up, testing the strength of the wood. He thought he might tie me at some point. He never did. But I didn’t care.

    I was a ball of nerves. Jumpy. But also horny. He wore boots. His outfit looked vaguely military. This was going to be brutal.

    Still, I didn’t know what to do with myself. So I talked. Stammered a bit. Giggled a bit. He bought into the ruse. We both knew it was just a matter of moments, though, before I was on the floor.

    In the blink of an eye, I was splayed out on the sheet, sobbing immediately. He went from zero to ten; no warm up. Pulled out his knife. Tore open my shirt. Slashed at my boxers.

    He punched. Kicked a bit. And slapped. Fuck, he wouldn’t stop slapping me. My face. My arms. My back. My ass. That was the worst, at first. The stingy, unforgiving pain. And then gripping the surface he just assaulted. Rubbing in the hurt. Making it last that much longer. It was intense and almost overwhelming.

    But then he started with his toys.

    A small marble dagger-shaped paddle. Smacking my breasts. Attacking my nipples.

    His bath brush, minus the loofah. Burning stings to my biceps, my thighs. It created impressive bruises from the start.

    His cane struck all over me. He’d hit a spot. I’d curl in, trying to get away. But it just gave him something new to attack.

    My hands flew out instinctively trying to stop the pain. He yelled at me for this. And then came the punishment for my infringement: my sternum.

    He slapped my sternum. Hard. And then he told me what he was going to do. Told me he was going to punch my sternum. Told me, if my hands got in the way, he would punch me more than the two times he had planned. He asked me if I could take the two punches without blocking with my hands. Or did I want more?

    He punched me once, twice. It hurt like a bitch. And yet, it was the kind of delicious pain I crave.

    All during his tortures, he took moments to check in with me. Coming in close to my face. Whispering in my ear as I sobbed.

    “Are you okay?”
    “I’m okay.”
    “Do you want to stop?”
    “No,” I whimpered each time.
    “Good girl. You are such a good girl.”

    He took the remains of my clothes. Put them to my face. Wiped away my tears and the snot.

    Once, in the middle of our scene, he asked me a question I suppose many wonder about.

    “Why do you do this?”

    Through snot and tears. Trying to more than mumble. Trying to speak so he could actually hear me, I answered him.

    “Because it forces me to cry. The pain takes me to a place where I can’t ignore emotions. I like to cry. Love the release. And I like to know I can take it. I can take the pain. Even when it really hurts.”

    But he wasn’t always sweet with his words. Wasn’t always kind. More often than not, he was just the opposite.

    “You are in way over your head,” he said, many times, an evil laugh following.

    During one check-in, my back on the floor, looking up at him, he asked me if I wanted to stop. I had no sense of time at that point, and I worried I would not have enough time for our aftercare, my blacking his boots.

    “You are amazing. I’m beating your ass and you’re worried about my boots?”

    He barked at me to kiss his boots. I got on my hands and knees. Planted my face at the toe of his boot. Kissed and licked up and down his leather. Felt the pain melt out of me. Felt the lust I’d had from before build again. My head went back and forth between his boots, loving his leather.

    He moved away. I followed him around. He bent down. Grabbed his whip.

    I felt the first pop on my ass. I shrieked, but kept kissing and licking his boots. Another pop. Another yelp. Another lick.

    He moved about, whipping me. I tried cowering away. He yelled at me. I was to keep adoring his boots. I scrambled around. Towards his leather. Away from his blows.

    He checked back in with me. I wanted to keep going. I wanted to keep pushing myself. But I also wanted to take care of his boots. So I stopped the scene, leather love more important than my tears.

  • Story Of O

    I’ve spent most of my free time thus far during my London trip reading an iconic BDSM novel, Story Of O by Pauline Reage.

    I’d heard of the book before I purchased it on a whim at Rope Camp. Having learned that it was the basis for two sites on kink.com (The Training Of O and The Upper Floor), I knew this was a story I needed to read.

    I finished the book in thirty-six hours. It was that good.

    As I read it, I saw all the little ways kink permeated the pages. Saw all the subtle notes of my life reflected in the story. Even just passing mentions of intricacies of my kink made my heart flutter.

    But now, having gone through the journey, having just finished the book, having invested so in the main character, her development, her journey, I am left with a sickening rage.

    The final page of the book tells of a deleted chapter, the final chapter, full of heartache and betrayal towards a character I had grown to love by a character I had grown to love.

    It said simply:

    In a final chapter, which was surpressed, O did return to Roissy, where Sir Stephen abandoned her.
    There exists a second end to O’s story. In that version, O, seeing that Sir Stephen was on the verge of leaving her, preferred to die. Sir Stephen gave his consent.

    Having read those words, I damn near threw the book across the room. I’m holding back tears as I write this.

    Through everything, through love and pain, questioning herself, questioning her love for one man and finding a deeper love with another, through two hundred pages of struggle and then finally to just be thrown away…

    I do not understand… I cannot understand…

    Sir Stephen was her Master, a man who found himself in love with her, who she gave all of herself to, and yet with one paragraph these iconic characters are sullied for me.

    As O grew to love Sir Stephen, I too found myself falling for his character, at first hard and unbendable, but who morphed and changed even as he influenced O, pushed her further than she knew she could go. His great desire for her, his deep love for her, his need to have her fully and completely is something I cannot deny I desire from another.

    I fear, and yet still find myself craving, to be owned. To give all of myself, to dedicate my being to another. But the idea of being thrown away, the idea of a Master disposing of his slave like she were just another fancy, brings my blood beyond boiling and scares away my resolve to even pondering the thought.

    How can one call themself a Master, accept a slave, take on the responsibility of another life, brand them, pierce them, lock iron loops through them signifying their eternal bond, only to later set them aside like yesterday’s paper?

    I wish I had never read that page, wish I hadn’t gone past THE END on what I thought was the last page of the novel. But now, having read that paragraph, I find myself trying to forget an ending I never thought would or could happen.

    I’m surprised how much Story Of O struck a chord with me. Even with the dense winding of the translation (the book was originally written in French) and the mental hoops you have to jump through to absorb the writing, I found something about this book so compelling.

    Maybe it is because the story is entirely from O’s perspective, giving insight not only into how she lived, the things she did (with and to whom), but also the why. Reading her pleasure in being a whore for her lover. Reading her thrill in being taken by whomever her Sir chose. The reckless abandon of the sex scenes (of which there are many). How complicated she was, both in her desires for men and women. And how much she changed from the first page to the last.

    I love Story Of O. I understand why you can base two different porn sites off of it. Having read it, I can already feel its influence on me, can already sense how it will shift my writing.

    But, more shockingly, I can almost feel the shift in me. I can almost sense how I’ve changed through reading it. Can almost imagine how I will be different now that the last page is finished, the book is closed, and I’m supposedly free from the bonds of the words.

    Because I don’t feel free. I don’t feel like the story has ended. The book still feels wide open, splayed, ready to be read again through my body, my desires, my lovers… through me.

  • A Good Start

    Today I took my brother to a sex shop.

    No, I am not joking.

    Yes, my brother.

    Yes, a sex shop.

    With dildos and lube and clothes and videos.

    A sex shop.

    Really, it was necessary. Since I’ve known and viewed him as an adult, he’s been very sexually repressed, casting judgements on his predilections, too nervous to do what he obviously wanted to do.

    I came out to him as kinky about a year or two ago. He just revealed his kink to me in the past few months. Baby steps.

    Being that today was a Sunday, I wasn’t sure the store would be open. But it was on the way to his house, so why not. We caught them thirty minutes before they closed.

    When we walked in, one of the owners greeted us. She gave us a quick lay of the land, explaining where things were. And then we were off.

    I let him roam ahead, let him find things. If he had a question, I answered it. I also interjected other facts I felt he should know.

    I must admit, I was a little squicked as I did this. I still remember him as the little kid I met when I was fifteen and he was eleven. He’s twenty-five now, attractive, a good guy. He deserves to be happy, so I sucked it up and helped out my Bro.

    Eventually we ended up in the kink and fetish area.

    “I swear, it’s genetic!” – SkinnyBitch

    I’m inclined to agree with her.

    My brother selected an item. I, seizing upon the opportunity, also purchased something for myself. He kept wanting things in a specific color, and then he wanted things that vibrated. Eventually we found him an adequate toy and made our way back to the register.

    Talking this time to the second owner, the husband of the married duo, there was a short lecture on lube.

    “You always need more lube.” – me

    As we walked out, purchases in tow, I asked, “Now was that so hard?”

    He pointed out there were no other people in the store, it was a Sunday, a holiday, and the owners were nice, so no it wasn’t. Whether or not he’ll be back though…

    I hope he will. Baby steps.

    It is my plan to drag him to a munch, and then eventually a happy hour. Maybe some day in the future we will have to coordinate events, making sure our paths don’t cross. But, for now, a visit to a sex store is a good start.

    This was definitely not an activity I expected to participate in ever, let alone on Father’s Day.

    We actually saw our father, and spent time with family I met for the first time today. But that is a story for another post.

  • My Life, In List Form

    Part of my last session with Doc focused on the idea of life goals. For this week’s homework, he wanted me to make lists of my life goals/desires. He encouraged me to be detailed (“Use that writing of yours.”) when describing what I want.

    In some ways this task is easy. In others it is quite difficult.

    I know I want to finish Sticky. I know I want to publish it, sell butt loads of copies (physical and digital), and develop my main character into an entire series of books.

    I know I want to live off of my writing. But, until I reach that goal, I want to make a certain money level in my current job.

    I know I want to attend at least one new kink event a year, and make sure to stay close and connected with my current (and growing) kinky family.

    But here is the rub. It is so much harder to talk about what I want from a life partner, from my romantic relationships.

    I know I want to fall in love. I know I want to find someone to partner with and create a life together. In theory, I want marriage and at least one kid. I want a Daddy who will give me all this.

    However, I am a slut. A big slut. A super-duper-huge-gleefully-naked-fuck-me-fist-me-forever slut. I am so very kinky. I love fists and cigars and boots and rope. I. Am. A. Slut.

    I want my kinky fetish cake and to eat it too. I want to commit to someone, wholly and fully, and yet still have free leave to go play and fuck whomever I want. And I would freely extend this leave to my life partner.

    Now ask yourself: do you know anyone like this? Cause, well, I don’t. Can I really be owned if I have so much freedom? Is it even possible to have it all? The life, the kink, the fucking, and the love? Who could be strong enough to be by my side for all of that? Could I even be strong enough to be a partner to this person?

    In a previous session, Doc asked me if I was trying to be someone I’m not. I told him about Green Eyes, and how I sometimes feel when watching others play.

    He asked me why I thought I needed to be able to watch someone I care for with another? He insightfully pointed out all the things bothering me stemmed from my comparisons of myself to that other person. He encouraged me to have compassion for “the little girl inside me”, the one who feels less than, not good enough.

    If I can’t do this now, when I am not partnered, when it is just friends, how can I hope to do it later? How can I hope to be that super strong poly cheerleader? How can I hope to be that uber-me? I am so far away from who I strive towards. Will I ever be her?

    It feels more than a little odd, writing about this in the lobby of Shibaricon. How often does one have broad sweeping conversations with themself when they are suppose to be on vacation?

    Even so, after I finish this blog, I’ll pull out my journal, look at the bare bones of my lists, and add or do some tweeking.

    I’ll wonder about money, my job, my hopeful writing career. I’ll think about my family and friends. I’ll ponder if I want to stay a renter or someday own a home. One kid or more? Stay on the east coast or move some where else.

    And, eventually, I’ll crawl back upstairs, collapse into my bed, my mind still dancing around my life, in list form.

  • Bare It All

    I was nervous. Speaker after speaker stepped up to the mic and recounted story after amazing story. One man spoke about his first ever visit to a bathhouse in Ireland. Another recounted his brief but wondrous life as a child porn star. A beautiful woman spoke about finding love when she least expected it. A gentleman spun the tale of his first trip to Amsterdam. And a man with a wonderful accent told us about his first ever kink event, and why you should always take the Monday after off.

    All of this, plus the opening act, a musical performance by Kimi Lundie, was awesome. At one point my cheeks hurt from smiling and laughing so hard. I had a great time.

    But there was one moment where I held my breath. I had put my name in the “bare pussy” for the opportunity to step up to the mic and tell a story.

    I knew which tale I would spin: the first night of my very first kink event. I outlined the story previously today, twice, just in case I got lucky. The person picked would get seven minutes to speak. I wanted, oh how I wanted my name to be pulled.

    I was the first to submit my name. Unfortunately I was not the last. There were about five names in the bag when Jefferson pulled out a name, not my name. Instead Marcus, his friend, told the story of the first time his chest was shaved. For the vanillas in the audience, it seemed tame enough. As a kinkster, with his talk of cigars and submission along with the shaving, it was full of sexy hotness to me.

    I was disappointed my name didn’t get picked, but that is pretty much the norm for me in these situations. I very rarely have good luck when it comes to random drawings. Instead, I focused on the show, and enjoyed every minute of it.

    The gathering was a resounding hit. The line for the Black Cat was long. The show sold out. People were literally turned away. I look forward to the next installment, which hopefully will be each month. We’ll see.

    After the show, people mingled in the bar, chatting and laughing. I greeted Jefferson and BLP, met Marcus and Kimi Lundie, as well as other speakers, and had a generally good time. When we all realized we were hungry, a group of about nine of us made our way to Adams Morgan and late night falafels turned out to be just right.

    Nourished and tired, the NYC crew were to crash with Marcus at his home. After a quick car and luggage shuffle, and multiple goodbyes, our night had ended at 2am, but not before I secured a Winter Fire get together with Jefferson.

    All-in-all, a pretty fucking fantastic night.

    [Many thanks to MaryLeo, without whom my cash starved ass would not have made it into the show. I owe her about three drinks, to be paid over the next few Happy Hours, fair trade for such good memories.]

  • Watching: Gray & Slut

    Rope Camp Memories continued…

    I am a voyeur, have been for as long as I can remember. As such, I get to see a lot of cool shit. One such scene happened on the NYR Cabin front lawn.

    On the cabin porch, while Lochai gave me a brief tutorial on different ways to tie a single column cuff, Gray practiced a harness for his Fetish Performance class on his demo bottom, Slut. The idea was he would be able to remove the harness with one long pull.

    Lochai, after he was comfortable that I had the cuff, asked Gray to show him the harness as well. The group moved down to the lawn while I sat on the porch practicing my tie. Once Lochai was satisfied that he could recreate the harness, he left.

    Gray and Slut then seamlessly transitioned into a scene. He tied a chest harness on her and began fingering her.

    If you ever get a chance, watch Slut play. Her facial expressions are well worth the price of admission. She falls into a state of ecstasy one can only hope to attain.

    Gray got her to the ground, fingering her still more. He put her over his knee and spanked her. He brought her mouth to his cock and began fucking her face.

    And all the while I sat, elbows on my knees, head in my hands, leaning forward, watching. I didn’t dare move; I didn’t dare breathe.  My eyes were locked on their scene.

    I still remember distinct moments from their play. The sway of his hips, his hand on the back of her head, as he thrust his cock into her mouth. The look on her face, her head tilted back, her body collapsed as she felt every twitch of his finger. And a moment, a perfect fucking moment, when he glanced up, saw me watching, and smirked.

  • Don’t Touch Me

    Rope Camp Memories continued…

    As part of Graydancer’s RACK Roleplay class, I volunteered to be a demo bottom in a test for the top, which in this exercise happened to be Gray.

    My role to play was whispered quietly in my ear. Gray was then instructed to give me a hard takedown and bind me in a constrictive position. He seemed pleased with this prospect, quickly securing me in an arm bar, and forcing me to the matted floor.

    He tied me tight, ensnaring both my arms behind my back, wrapping a box tie around my chest. He sunk his weight into my back using his knee. My face was compressed down; I took no notice of the rest of my body. I was solidly pinned.

    Following the script, my breath became labored. He grabbed my hair and barked in my ear.

    “How does this make you feel? Are you wet? Am I making you wet?”
    “Yes.”
    “Say it. Say it!”
    “Wet! Wet. You make me feel wet.”

    With my breathing slowed, he went back to his tie. With the intensity of this mock scene, which didn’t feel at all fake to me, one thought ran through my mind. Shit! Are you fucking kidding me? I have to end this now? Now!?!

    I followed the script, even though it went against every fiber of my being.

    I began hyperventillating. Gray put his hand on my back to try to comfort me. I increased my hurried breaths.

    “Breathe with me. Breathe with me.”
    “Don’t touch me! DON’T TOUCH ME!”

    Again and again I yelled at Gray, using the same words over and over, panic in my voice. He stepped back, trying to calm me with soothing reassurances, but it was to no avail.

    “Don’t touch me. Don’t touch me.”

    An “expert” stepped in to help, asking Gray what went wrong. Gray explained the situation and the “expert” got close to me, attempting to talk to me.

    “DON’T TOUCH ME!”

    Because of his nearness, my voice, which had quieted some, rose again to a scream. He backed away.

    Neither man knew what to do. Gray had his safety shears, but my protestations were coupled with writhing. The last thing Gray wanted to do was risk cutting me.

    In a stroke of quick thinking, Gray called over my “sister” to try to calm me down. The called upon volunteer knelt down slowly, got eye contact with me, and tried to talk me down.

    “Don’t touch me.”

    I still repeated my mantra, though quietly, as if I were trying to talk to her but I did not posess the words. She softly asked if it was okay if they untied me. I tearily complied.

    Once free, I asked, “Are we done?” Someone gave an affirmitive reply. I bopped up and sat back in my seat, happy and bubbly from my performance.

    Everyone else, though, was a little freaked out.

    Yeah, I forgot to tell them I could act. Opps.

  • Why Rope?

    Rope Camp Memories continued…

    “Fuck the naysayers, fuck the purists; you do rope for you.” – Deiter

    As a Domme, I enjoy rope because, well, I like tying people up. I enjoy the skill, the knowledge of the knots, and how this winding substance can control a body. I love the feel of rope as I lay it, bind it, across flesh. The fibers in my hands, the way it moves through my manipulations, is just a joy.

    There is the practical aspect of rope that I like, seeing as it is harder for someone to get away when I do mean things to them. One of my favorite rope activities involves tying someone in a carada, binding their hands behind them, and pushing & pulling them back and forth. I call it my ‘Human Yo-Yo.’ I can be seen cackling ecstatically as I keep them off balance, almost, but not quite, falling.

    I also find rope asethetically pleasing. To be plain, I like to make things look pretty. Weaving strands across someone’s body is a skill, but also an art form. There is a reason why we all love to take photos of our work or perv photos of another’s rigging. The shit just looks fucking good.

    As a sub, my love for rope has run deep and long. I cherish the feel of rope on me, multiple tendrils of comforting hugs encasing my body. There is no limit to the amount of rope I want on me, provided I can still breath, somewhat. Big Bro used close to 200ft of rope when he popped my suspension cherry; for all I cared, he could’ve used 2000 and I would have been just as happy.

    There is a practical reason for my love that is obvious, useful, and enjoyable; rope is great for sex. I can still remember the feel of the chest harness Gray put on me the night we workshopped his Cigars and Rope Play class. That particular tie was on me for at least two hours. When we finally did fuck, at the end of our session of play, he used the tie to pound his cock inside me, “riding me like a jockey encouraging a thouroghbred down the home stretch.” Who the fuck is going to say, “I don’t like rope because it takes too long,” to that?

    Beyond the fucking, which I absolutely love, rope is an immediate way for power exchange. Bound in fibers, I relish the lose of control. When I am being tied, I let myself go, allowing my binder to have complete authority over me. Only they may decide what is going to happen to my body. For those precious few moments, I feel owned, fully and wholly. I sink into my submission. I let go.

    So, why rope? Are you shitting me? Why the fuck not?